


a perfect match

by Magali_Dragon



Series: one shots and other drabbles [25]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artists, Day 6: Colors, F/M, Jonerys Week, Jonerys Week 2020, Nude Modeling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, artist!dany, nude model!jon, paint everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: Daenerys is a professional artist who normally can keep it together...except a few weeks after she convinces acquaintance Jon Snow to model nude as the subject of her latest series of paintings, the tension overwhelms them both.For Jonerys Week 2020/Dream of Spring, Day 6: Colors
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: one shots and other drabbles [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567705
Comments: 50
Kudos: 336





	a perfect match

**Author's Note:**

> This is straight porn again with no plot. Again, maybe not very good but oh well. Mistakes with the tense are possible, this seemed to be suited to present tense and I usually write past.

* * *

It happens rather suddenly. She cannot be sure what did it. A final lift of her eyes from the work in front of her to behind the easel, to study the subject on the chaise before her, lying on his stomach, a singular line of perfection from the ends of his soft curls to the hard soles of his feet. Almost daily for over a month she’s been confronted by him, assaulted by the sight of his perfect body, the pale, smooth expanse of his muscular chest, that little line of dark hair to the thatch that surrounded his lovely cock— which had on more than one occasion been harder than it probably should have been for someone who is supposed to just lie there and be the subject of her artistic expressions.

And then there’s the back view, the perfect curve, sloping from the taut and sinewy muscles of his back, two dimples above it, before it sloped downward, each cheek a marble globe, the gods themselves would envy. It is the source of her agitation, the source of their relationship, and the only thing she originally sought out, deciding that _this_ must be the focus of her newest show. The world should witness it, should glorify in it, this perfect specimen of maleness.

She sobs, her paint-splattered shirt tearing from her shoulders, locking her arms back behind her for a moment before she musters energy to shake it off to the floor, where the little jean shorts she had on are gone, floating at her ankles from his angry tugs a moment before. They kiss, furious, her nails digging into the back of his scalp and his teeth gnashing at her bottom lip. He spins her, knocking her backwards.

All the paint on the table splatters to the floor, the force of her body and knock of her limbs sending tubes and bottles and jars of crimson red, yellow ochre, and Prussian blue sideways, to crack and spill and stain the already messy workspace. Indigo as deep purple as the sky just after sunset smear with grays the color of ash, changing the indigo into a lighter, duller lavender color, which decorates her palm, thrown out sideways to catch herself as she collapses back onto the cluttered table.

Her tits bounce at the movement, the action allowing her silver hair to spill over her shoulders, the color of spun silk, and her cheeks are flushed pink from want. Or perhaps embarrassment, constantly wondering if he could see into her thoughts as she stood with that easel barrier between them, trying not to wonder what that perfect backside might felt like in her palms, if it is as hard as it appeared, as she’d drawn and painted it. She stares at him, pupils blown wide, desperate, and he grabs for her black panties—they have orange flecks on them now from the paintbrush he’d thrown aside from her hand a moment ago—watching his eyes blacken when he grunts and tears them from her, baring her to his feral gaze.

She wants to touch him, to grasp for him, but he’s in charge here. Moments ago she was the one ordering him. The shift in power excites her, sends her blood surging through her veins, and her body quivers in anticipation, her thighs damp with throbbing need. She barely lifts her chin; he surveys her, lying spread out before him. She grips her fingers at her side, digging into the roughhewn wood, her heels at the edge, and wonders what he will do first.

It seems he wonders as well and she startles when he takes his index finger and dips it into the paint at her side, a color she cannot tell, and he lifts it and spreads it down over her cheek, before he leans in and crushes his lips to hers again, tongue sweeping in and drinking from her. She moans against him, the act sinful, and dirty. He pulls away, biting hard on her lip and she takes in his eyes again, that peculiar color she cannot quite match, no matter how hard she tried, using every available combination available to her.

They are gray like ash, but not as dark as charcoal. The dim sunlight glints off the irises and she can see flecks of indigo, but it shifts once more in the darkness and there very well might be hints of sable brown too. They remind her of the clouds rolling in before a great storm, shifting from light to dark, steely and somber, but there is a shine on them, metallic maybe, like silver.

Now though they are almost black, so dark she feels like she is drowning in them, and her chest heaves, her breasts swaying with every sharp exhalation. He moves his fingers and she realizes the color on her cheeks is the same crimson, bloody red, the color of her dragon symbol. The one she uses to stamp every canvas as an original Daenerys Stormborn. The notion ignites fire in her belly, causes her to gasp harder for breath— _he’s marking me as his, the way I marked the canvasses of him as mine._

He reaches his hands under her bent knees, tugging her to the edge of the table and her skin chills, paint smearing under her shoulders and in the small of her back, likely leftover from the mixing she’d been doing earlier. Trying to get the right shade to add shadows to the painting, which sits abandoned on the easel nearby, along with the silk sheet draped chaise where he laid and posed for her.

She needs to touch him. It is unfair how close he is to her, his rough fingers abrading the soft skin under her knees, tilting her hips backwards as he leans forward, mouth hot over her heaving breasts, worrying over one dusky rose nipple. She whimpers, head tossing about, and she closes her eyes, arching towards him, needing the ache she in her belly to ebb, savoring the pinch of pain as he nips at one of her tits before he moves to the other, to pay it the same attention.

Scrambling for purchase on the table, she grips his raven hair, sending streaks of vibrant purple and navy blue into the silky curls. She circles her hips up, rubbing at his thick cock, and he tugs away from her chest to kiss her again and he allows her to reach between them and stroke him, grunting into her mouth with each pass of her palms over him. This lovely, lovely cock, she thinks, having studied it almost as much as she studied the rear view. It is long and thick, the tip flushed dark red now, her thumbnail dragging on the pulsing vein underneath. _I need to paint this too,_ she reminds herself, for most of the work thus far concentrated on the other side, the true perfection. She needs him inside of her; filling the void. Her blood rushes in her ears, desperate. He reaches down again, impatient, gripping her hips, and his thumbs leave hard indentations into the curve of her pelvic bones. The finger with the red paint on it marks her again, reminding her she is his now.

The painting mocks her from nearby, half-finished, swipes of red, purple, and blue, and she moans, eyes slamming shut, seeing it in her mind’s eye, exploding in a shower of sparks. She forces her eyes open to watch him, those coal black eyes and his paint-scattered inky curls, and she stares as he kisses down her belly, skirting around the smears of white and gray paint from the tray he knocked aside, when he reached for her the first time. When she was fussing with the trays, trying to mix the color she wanted and couldn’t seem to find, and looked up to discover he was no longer on the chaise, but beside her, and then they were in each other’s arms, unable to maintain their increasingly weak hold on professionalism.

Because she was— _is_ — a professional, yet now it seems she tossed any bit of that out the window along with her control. “Oh!” she exclaims, gripping tighter to him.

The sensations explode again, fire burning in her blood and she struggles to keep her eyes open to watch him. In her daze, he closed his mouth over her spread cunt, blossoming open only for him. She watches, entranced, those soft, blush pink lips as difficult to match as his eye color closing around her in gentle kisses, tongue flicking along her dripping slit, and she cries out again.

Her hand presses at his head, the other tight around the edge of the table, her knees bent high, her heels painfully digging into the edge, and she thinks she might just slide right off to the floor, if not for his strong arms holding her up. One wide hand pushes underneath her thigh, angling it up and over his shoulder, while the other has her knee cast to the side, bent almost at a right angle, opening her wider for him to feast.

And feast he does. She can’t stay up, her abs shaking, so she leans to the side on her elbow, heaving for breath. She can’t focus. His rough tongue swipes and slides, gathering the mess of her arousal and dragging it from her entrance to her clit, lifting the fleshy hood and tapping at it lightly, before sucking it gently. He does this several times, mixing up the steps, her mind spiraling with her body. Her eyes spring open, throat clenching, and she gazes around her studio, surrounded by pictures, paintings, and drawings of him, in every color of the rainbow.

 _Muse_ , she guesses they can call it. Model, sure. Except he is more than that now. Always was, from the moment she spoke to him, talked to him, and convinced him to be here. All she had were those paintings and drawings, just ghostly images of him to tide her over.

Except now the real version is right here, with her, and not on the paper and canvasses littering the wide space. The walls are stark white, the floor covered in messy ugly gray dropcloths and the slanted ceiling a light oak, rough exposed beams, which she tries to focus on while she loses herself in what the man between her legs is doing. Pain hides under the pleasure, that fine line between each sensation, as he takes her to the edge of each and backs off, before driving forward again, constantly teasing and testing her limits. 

She tries to reach for him once more, to wrap her arms around him, drag his marble hard body over hers, to messy and dirty him the way he has with her. The canvas is always empty until the first stroke of her brush; he feels that way to her now. A smooth, blank canvas, hard planes and curves of muscle, and skin as pale as cream. She gave up on mixing that color too—it came off too peachy, too pink, and too red. He is unmatchable, she believes, so unique no color in her palette can come close.

Cheeks flushed, lip worried red between her teeth, she pushes at his shoulders, trying to bring him up with her. Unbothered by her actions, and unwilling to follow her instruction, he raises over her and returns that perfect mouth to her tightly furled nipples, already marked from his earlier ministrations. He laves at them as he did her cunt, tongue raspy on the delicate skin. Fingers dig into his shoulders, wanting him to kiss her, to finally push into her. Frustrated, she tries to reach for him again, to feel that hot, heavy cock in her hand once more.

I deserve it, for waiting, she thinks, whining impatiently.

He ignores her again and in a quick movement, he hooks his arms under her thighs and tilts her roughly to her back again, pushing her legs apart once more and her knees hit at her breasts. His hand moves around the outside of her thigh to drag his knuckles at the delicate inner skin, her leg trembling, and he presses the heel of his palm against her cunt, roughly hitting her clit. She gasps, instinctively trying to close her legs against the intense pressure, but he moves again and pushes them apart. She tries to keep her eyes open, but it is impossible, she’s drowning in him. The fire smothers her, burns her throat, dry and tight, panting and grunting and groaning his name.

 _Focus, focus on the colors_ , she tells herself, staring around the studio. The ashy gray and black of the charcoal drawings, the dull graphite of the pencil sketches, and the canvas that started this all. The multicolor, rainbow like work, the image of the man strong, powerful, with harsh brushstrokes and smooth curves, mimicking the real life subject exactly.

Her fingers grip his upper arms, staining the skin there black and red, whatever happens to be on her hands at the moment. She’s hot and ready, his fingers sliding along her plump pink nether lips, and suddenly he plunges two of his long, thick fingers inside of her. She cries out at the invasion, tightening around him as he sinks his fingers in further, forcing her body to acquiesce to him. It isn’t hard; she eagerly takes him, body sighing at filling getting filled.

His name slips from her lips, long and low— _Joooon_. She thrusts against him, riding his hand. She awkwardly bends on the table, grappling again to steady herself, this time her hand sinking into a tray at her side, smearing the paint along the inside of her hand and wrist, which slides out from under her. He lifts her leg again, her knee hooking over his shoulder and her calf resting there carefully. His fingers fuck her, but they’re not what she wants, or needs, despite her wriggling against him, moaning and calling his name, clenching her body tighter and tighter around him.

She locks her gaze on him again and almost comes at the look in his coal eyes, a light sheen of sweat on his skin, and his belly sucking in tight with every gasping deep breath he took, watching her twist around him, getting off on seeing her get off. The paint begins to drip on her, the sweat mixing with the pigments, tracking down her arms. The silver hair long pulled from her messy braid is an empty canvas and she can feel the stickiness against her scalp.

A cry of his name again, he pulls her off the table, scattering tins and trays and more brushes to the ground with them, like a rainfall, and she hears the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of paint and water. They are on the dropcloth on the floor and his fingers are no longer inside of her; he reaches between them and she watches him grasp his cock. Her fingers slip along the length, but he’s rock hard already and he notches it at her cunt, then pushes into her, a swift, driving force that hikes her high up on the floor, her body reflexively drawing her knees up to her shoulders. She cries out, his hips smacking against hers, and she thrusts back with the same force, the sound of their flesh dragging and smacking filling the studio. Sinful, lustful. He does not give her time to adjust to his size, instead he bows over her, pressing her leg up to her chest and she wraps her fingers around her thigh, holding it out of the way, to give him more room as he fucks her; hard and fast.

The act is primal, animalistic, and dominating. Long ignored passion bottling up for weeks, every glance and touch chalked up to the modeling and painting process. It takes them over now, no longer denied.

She blinks against sweat gathering in her eyes, her cries of pleasure reverberating around them. She knocks something behind her, and it clatters to the side. The sound distracts him momentarily, his ragged grunts and breaths faltering. She does not want him to stop and she digs her nails into the subject of her paintings, the reason they even met. Red crescents of her nails mar the perfect, molded, sculpted globes of his arse.

It started as a joke. Or she thinks of it as a joke. They saw each other every single morning, had for almost a year, on her morning runs. Sometimes they spoke. He had a big fluffy white dog that always tried to jump on her and she knew his name: _Jon_. They chatted here and there, sometimes stretching together, but she didn’t know what to make of him, because he was so polite and kind of shy and well, if he didn’t want to ask her out, why push it? He never did, although maybe one day he would, but she wasn’t holding out hope.

He had the most amazing body. She was an artist, she appreciated the human form, and the care with which he treated his. There was no denying as she ran behind him—admittedly a little slower so she could observe his backside—even in a pair of baggy gym shorts, his arse was probably the greatest thing she had ever seen. It belonged in a museum. It should be sculpted, painted, and revered. She wanted to paint him, to paint _it._ She doodled his face, sketched what she imagined it would look like beneath his shorts, and finally one morning she asked if he wanted coffee, she’d like to ask him something.

It took goading, pressuring, and a few more coffee dates, and then he was in her studio, rather out of place to her in his worn jeans—practically painted to that juicy peach—looking around at the space and asking her questions about it. About what it would entail. She answered him, seeing his curiosity, and wondering if she finally had him when she said she would not be painting his face.

“What will you call it?” he asked, a little shy, but intrigued at the concept. He was adorably confused, when she first said it would be a nude series, she would need him naked, entirely professional of course. She was an artist, her paintings went for millions of dragons at shows around the city, and people clamored for a chance to get a true _Daenerys Stormborn._ It was cute to her, how he wanted to know what she would name this show, if he would be the star. “Your series? What will you call it?”

She had not gotten that far, decided she would figure it out when she finished, pressing him. She needed an answer one way or the other, or else she would have to find another source of inspiration. “Would you be interested? I’m happy to pay you for your time, of course.”

“No, that’s alright.”

“You’ll get full credit as my model.”

He laughed. “Oh I don’t think so, my family will never let me live it down if they knew I had become a nude model.”

She grinned, eager, offering her hand. “So you’ll do it?”

He hesitated, looked at her for a moment, and she felt her stomach flip. The first sign her professionalism was waning. He grasped her hand, squeezing briefly. “Yes.”

So it began, days and weeks of getting to know each other. It was a little strange, for him, but not for her. He got used to it, seemed even comfortable after a bit, of her sketching him, painting him, and posing him. Sitting on a stool, lying on a lounge, a variety of poses, each one showing off that flawless round arse. It had all been professional, until something happened, something she could not quite place. She didn’t know when it started. Maybe it began that first session, just of him in a t-shirt and boxer briefs. A building tension, their interactions increasingly awkward, jerky, and flushed with embarrassment. She noted that once or twice he would shift and she realized, her cheeks pinking, and turning away quickly, he was becoming aroused. She was too.

She grew frustrated. There were too many colors she could not match, his hair, his eyes, his skin, and his lips. She could not get the shadows to show, the light to fall just right, and even her abstract attempts were off. It had been a great idea, but now it was falling apart, and she was mad because whenever they said goodbye after the sessions, she felt that tension thicken, until it was almost impossible to breathe.

Thank gods, the tension is gone now, vacuumed straight out the moment he got off that chaise and she went around the barrier of her canvass. She digs into his arse now, as he fucks her so fast, she can feel him in every muscle and bone of her body. He’s an extension of her. The muscles beneath her hands flex and he groans, pushing harder into her as she digs in deep, encouraging his movements.

They kiss, messy and angry, and she thinks of the colors of the bruises blooming along his skin from her vice grip and along her chest and breasts from his teeth and scratchy beard. Purple, mottled blues and blacks too.

Abruptly, her body is empty, and she sobs, frustrated. “What are you doing?” she cries.

“What do you think?” he grunts, flipping her onto her stomach.

Realizing his intentions, her blood quickens, excited. He breathes heavy against her ear, whispering. "This okay?" 

"Yes," she hisses, pushing back against him. She sits up onto her knees when he grabs her hips, pulling her back flush to his chest, sealing them together, the paint transferring from her body to his, and she realizes they are now on the canvas that fell. He closes one palm around her breast and the other he presses between her legs again, against her cunt, feathering his fingers there, rubbing at her clit, dragging circles. He falters, when she turns her face, biting her bottom lip hard and hitting her head to his shoulder.

They kiss again. The action feral, but his tongue gentle against hers. She groans again, when he moves from her, but he kisses down her neck and to her spine, pushing her to her hands and knees. She opens her eyes long enough to see the colors from her hands smear along the white canvas, blending seamlessly together, her fingertips digging into the stretched material. His fingers twist in her cunt again, tangling in the thatch of silver curls there, and he circles her clit once more, assuring her. 

She leans forward, arse lifting into the air, her legs pulling apart slightly and her breath heaving in anticipation. He surrounds her, stroking her and kissing the back of her neck, to her spine and she can feel his strong, muscular thigh hit her hip as he brings his knee up for stability.

She pushes back against him, whimpering, so empty and needing. His cock slides languidly along her slit, gathering her tacky fluids and he pushes into her again, her body sucking him in and she sobs at the feeling, the stretch and pull, and the hot drag of him when he give one, strong thrust, hips snapping against her arse. She groans his name, squeezing her cunt around him, and delights in his tortured moan.

Fingers grip her hips, pulling her against him roughly, and he fucks her again, deep and hard, and she cries with every thrust, every hit of his cock against the back of her cunt, his hand pressing against her lower back, the angle delicious and allowing her to feel him entirely once more. His fingers smear in the paint that is still slick on her skin and she grabs at the canvas beneath her, her toes curling into it, holding tight as he fucks her.

It didn’t take long at all, for her orgasm, which starts slow, a prickling inside her belly and before long is an explosion. She screams out, every nerve ending sparking, her cunt clenching around him and her fingers digging into his wrist for support. Her eyes spring open and it hits her.

She floats on the wave of the explosion, but she can see everything. She can see every single color she could not see before. They sparkle in her eyes, showering her body, and she can touch each and every one of them, shimmering diamonds, each and every facet gleaming reds, oranges, yellows. There’s greens, and blues, and indigo. The crimson of her favorite lipstick, the lavender of her eyes, and the shiny silver of her hair.

She can point out the exact raven ink of his hair, the cool gray to his eyes, and the pinkish-red of his lips. She touches the milky pink of her skin and the cool blue undertones of his. The orange-red of the fire burning inside of them and reaching its breaking point. The soft green of the grass beneath his feet when she first asked him if he wanted to model for her. There’s the light, rough blue of his jeans, the ones he tugged off when he entered the studio, stripping nude while she prepared her palettes and her brushes, eager to start on this particular painting, the largest of them all, the one she wanted as her showstopper.

And then they are gone.

Everything goes black, little dots in her vision now, her body collapsing, weak, onto the canvas, and in the back of her mind she can feel him still, pounding into her, cock twitching in her cunt, which still ripples around him, spasming from the aftershocks of her high. He gives a final cry, deep and hoarse, and empties inside of her. He stills, just a moment, and eventually collapses, arm falling forward around her shoulder to catch himself, so he does not crush her. He remains inside of her, both of them trying to catch their breath, and to figure what just happened to them.

He pulls out of her slowly, after his hips stop juddering, erratic and uncontrollable with the force of his orgasm. He falls to her side, rolling to his back next to her and she remains on her belly, feeling his seed trickle out of her. It is almost shameful how good she feels, how debauched this activity. She closes her quivering thighs together, reaching her fingers to press to her abdomen when she eventually rolls to her back. They stare up at the ceiling, not speaking, consciousnesses returning to their bodies.

She steals a glance at him; his eyes are open and unblinking. She smiles briefly, noting his swollen lower lip, bruised and dark red from her aggressive kisses. It takes all the energy she can muster, to lift herself up, and she struggles to her feet, taking in the mess they’ve made of her studio.

All her paints are mixed now, brushes covered in them, dirty paint water dripping to the floor in a puddle that shines iridescent. She looks at her hands, chuckling and wondering what color she could call the shade that stains her hands and arms. There’s paint on her legs and feet and belly, and she turns to look at him, noting he is the same kaleidoscope as her. He opens his eyes, meeting hers and smiles rather shyly.

“Uh…so…do you want to try again?”

“I don’t think I can move,” she laughs. Even standing up she still trembles.

He smirks, a man satisfied in his abilities. He shakes his head. “I meant the painting. But we can do what we just did again too.” He sighs, chuckling. “Just give me a minute too.”

She smiles, gazing at him for a moment, lying unabashedly nude on the floor. She purses her lips a moment later, thinking.

She turns, studying the painting on the easel. It just is not what she wanted, what she figured. Call her a finicky artist, but it doesn’t seem to be what she envisioned. She trails her finger over the curve of his arse, the facsimile on the dozens of artworks around them nothing compared to the real thing. She chuckles, shaking her head. “No, you see, I don’t know if I want to paint you now.”

He looks kind of hurt, a little awkward, and he gets up. He stands there naked, covered in multi-color paint hues. It seems he got the brunt of the red, it looks as though he is ready to go to war. She reaches for one of the bottles still on her table and squirts a glob of the paint onto a palette. “You don’t want to paint me now?” he asks, frowning. “I uh…I mean…if I screwed this up…” She looks over her shoulder; his cheeks above his scruffy dark beard are almost as red as the paint.

“You misunderstand me.” She smacks her hands together, smearing the paint. It is red, her red, Daenerys Targaryen red. She saunters to him and grins, reaching around his narrow hips, stepping into his space. “You see, I don’t know if I want the world looking at your arse, even if I am an amazing artist and probably the only one who could do it justice.”

He frowns, but it changes, eyes widening in surprise when she smacks both of her hands against those plump cheeks, digging her fingers into the hard swells. He laughs and tries to look behind him, to see what she’s doing. “Um, and why…why is that?”

“Because I can’t get the colors right, you see.”

“Is that it?”

“Not entirely.” She walks around him and studies the marks of her handprints on that perfect arse, chuckling, reaching for a clean canvass, so she can paint it, to retain it for her eyes and her eyes only. She picks up a brush and begins to swipe it over the material. After a moment, she meets his gaze again, still curious and waiting her response. “Your arse is mine and mine only Jon Snow.”

“So you’re not going to put it in an art show then?”

She shook her head. “Not right now.”

His shoulders sink, something of a relief and he turns, knocking the brush and canvas aside, reaching for her, a grin on his lips and he pulls her to him, cock hardening against her belly. She vibrates, as ready for round two as he is. “Good, I was hoping you’d say that. You have no idea how difficult it has been to try to be professional around you these last few weeks, with you as _focused_ as you’ve been.”

Her cheeks pinken. “What do you mean?”

They are covered in paint, naked, and have engaged in carnal behavior that is undoubtably the raunchiest sex she’s ever had, yet both of them are stammering, awkward. It seemed easier before when he was naked and she was painting. He ducks his head. “Um…well…I…I was afraid to ask you out.” He mumbles and she barely hears him.

Her eyes widen. “You…what?”

“I was afraid to ask you out,” he repeats, a little louder. He clears his throat. Rakes his fingers through his hair, paint streaking through again, now starting to dry. He smiles, shy, the little curve of it sending blood rushing through her body and her cunt grows wet again. “When you asked if I wanted to…to do this…I figured…um…why not? Because I...I didn’t really know how to talk to you. All the other times.”

 _Oh my gods._ “You were okay posing nude with me because you were afraid to ask me out while we were running together?” That makes no sense, but what little she knows of him, she suspects it actually makes the most sense in the world. He’s actually quite shy, but he is very comfortable in his skin, she could tell that the moment he first started posing for her. He is a bit of an enigma, Jon Snow. He nods quickly, flushing again. She blinks. “That…that makes no sense.”

He shrugs. “I wanted to see you and if well, if that’s what it took…”

“But…but I wanted you to ask me out.”

“You did?” He lights up, grinning now, his teeth shining bright white against his dark beard. She realizes it is still damp from her cunt.

Her cheeks pinken and she grins. “Yes!” She waves her hands. “I hate running! I only kept it up to keep seeing you!”

“Oh…” They laugh, the absurdity of it dissipating any remaining mortification. He tugs her to him again, fingers skimming at her collarbone, and his voice drops a few octaves, hoarse and low. “Well I guess now I don’t have to worry about explaining to my family why my arse is in a gallery.”

She nips his lower lip, murmuring. “Maybe one day, but for now it’s in my gallery.”

“Hmm.”

A thought occurs to her, as he slides his palm— somehow still paint free— over her side, moving to between her legs. She moans softly, brow furrowing, fighting the automatic response of falling into him and trying to figure out what happened today. “So…what…what changed?” she manages.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t take it. You were biting your tongue, just looking at me.”

She laughs, head falling backwards, eyes closing. “I was wondering. You were having trouble hiding it.” She feels him against her once more, cock rigid against her belly. She whimpers, the soft sound the breaking point for him.

They fall onto the canvas from before, her legs reaching up to hook around his waist. She kisses him, her hand marking his face, more colors joining the mix. Her skin pebbles in excitement again. He chuckles into her shoulder, rumbling deep in his chest and kisses her. She rolls him to his back and begins to ride him, sinking onto him with a steady push of her hips and digs her fingers around to grip his arse again.

After round two, they get up to go upstairs to the loft where she lives, to shower, to scrub all the paint off, when she looks back at the canvas they’d used as a mattress. The wooden frame bent and splintered from their combined weight and force of their fucking, and the canvas unbuckled and wrinkled. The colors are blinding, blending seamlessly into each other, and she realizes after a moment, with a wide smile, there is a perfect outline of his arse right in the center.

And it all matches perfectly.


End file.
